


Homo Homini Lupus Est (Man Is Wolf To Man)

by inexplicifics



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Animalistic, Apologies, Captivity, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Feral Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Gen, Rescue, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24130336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics
Summary: More than a year after the disastrous dragon hunt and its aftermath, Geralt needs rescuing, and Jaskier may be the only person who can manage to free him.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 129
Kudos: 1874
Collections: General Manager at the Wendy’s in Fairbanks, Geralt is Sorry, Just.... So cute...





	Homo Homini Lupus Est (Man Is Wolf To Man)

The wolf paces in his cage. It is not a very large cage: four paces one way, four paces the other. He cannot truly stretch his legs, cannot _run_ the way he wants to. But pacing is better than doing nothing. He has worn a track in the hard-packed dirt floor with his pacing. He can follow it blind, his feet finding the groove easily. He has done so before. Sometimes he is blind when they bring him back to his cage. Sometimes he is hurt. Sometimes he is deaf. Just now he is hale and healthy. It doesn’t matter. He paces.

The cage door opens, and a human is thrown in.

The human wears bright colors, like a flower or a bird, nothing like the dark plumage of the wolf’s captors. It - _he_ , by the smell - gets to his feet, dusting off his colors, making loud mouth-noises, and then he turns and sees the wolf, and his eyes go very big. He does not run away. Other humans have been put in the cage before. They try to run away - they bang on the cage bars and make _loud_ mouth-noises and cower in corners and the wolf ignores them until they are taken away. This human does not do any of that. This human comes _closer_ to the wolf.

This is a new thing, and new things are dangerous. The wolf waits, wary, to see what the flower-bird human will do.

The flower-bird human reaches out to touch the wolf. That is _not_ acceptable. The cage is terrible, but the cage is the only place where humans do not touch the wolf, do not _hurt_ the wolf. The wolf will not be hurt in his _cage_. He grabs the flower-bird human by the throat and pins him against the cage wall, snarling.

The flower-bird human does not fight the wolf. Does not _hurt_ the wolf. He goes limp in the wolf’s hands, looking at the wolf with big blue eyes (blue, so blue, sky-blue, flower-blue, why does the wolf know this shade of blue? He has not seen the sky in so _long_ -). He puts his hands flat on the wall and makes a single mouth-noise, quietly, over and over and over. He -

Does not smell of fear.

_All_ the humans smell of fear, the ones with dark plumage and the ones who are tossed into the wolf’s cage and the ones the wolf sees sometimes when he is taken from the cage to be hurt and even the mages with their sparking hands. They see the wolf and they _stink_ of fear. The flower-bird human smells like flowers, and a little like pain, but he does not smell like fear. He also doesn’t smell like magic, or metal, or anything else the wolf recognizes.

The wolf leans closer to smell the flower-bird human, and the flower-bird human _relaxes_ under the wolf’s hands. There is still no fear-scent. He smells like - like pine sap, and flowers, and herbs. It’s a good smell. An _outside_ smell. Like a meadow wide enough for the wolf to run.

Slowly, the wolf lets go of the flower-bird human. The flower-bird human bares his teeth - no. He _smiles_. That is a smile. The wolf knows what a smile is, though he hasn’t seen one in -

In a long time. Not a smile like _this_ one, bright and easy, with no cruelty in it.

The flower-bird human makes that soft mouth-noise again, and reaches out very, very slowly towards the wolf. The wolf stands his ground. If the touch hurts, he can break the flower-bird human, but this is _such_ a new thing that he no longer knows what to expect. All humans stink of fear, but the flower-bird human does not. All humans run from him, but the flower-bird human does not. All human touches hurt, but...maybe the flower-bird human’s will not?

The flower-bird human puts a hand on the wolf’s cheek, and it does not hurt at all. It is warm, and gentle. The wolf cannot remember ever being touched like this before. (No, somewhere back behind the door in his mind, the locked door, there is a memory trying to get out, of being touched like this - of warm hands, of _gentleness_. But he cannot quite reach it.)

The flower-bird human makes that soft mouth-noise again. The wolf leans into the touch of his hand, and the flower-bird human smells _happy_. It’s such an astonishing smell that the wolf leans forward, tucking his nose into the curve of the flower-bird human’s throat, wanting _more_ of flowers and herbs and pine sap and _happy_.

The flower-bird human makes a strange sound and does not pull away. He pets the wolf’s hair, instead, gentle so gentle. He keeps smelling happy. He keeps _talking_.

Talking. Not making mouth-noises. There are...words.

The wolf remembers words.

The locked door in his mind is...still locked. But the scent of the flower-bird human has made a crack in it, somehow. Some things have gotten out. _Words_. Words that mean things.

That one is the wolf’s name.

The wolf staggers back, staring at the flower-bird human, who stares back with big blue eyes. He says the wolf’s name again.

_Geralt_.

The wolf remembers his _name_.

He sits down, hard, on the dirt floor, and the flower-bird human kneels down next to him, hands fluttering. They are a distraction. The wolf catches them - gentle, gentle, he does not want to break this human, this brightly colored human who knows his name, whose scent makes holes in the locked door. The flower-bird human does not struggle. He kneels there with his hands caught in the wolf’s, and talks, quietly, endlessly. Most of it makes no sense. Most of it is just - mouth-noise. But there is the wolf’s name again, often.

The wolf brings the flower-bird human’s captured hands to his face. If the scent worked once to make a hole in the door, maybe it will work again? And wrists are good for scent. The flower-bird human doesn’t struggle, just watches, talks, _waits_.

Flowers and herbs. Pine sap and - the happy is fading, that’s a pity. But still no fear.

If scent helped, maybe - maybe taste?

Very delicately, the wolf turns one of the flower-bird human’s hands over and licks the pale underside of his wrist.

The flower-bird human makes a strange sound and then _laughs_. He smells happy again. That’s good.

Not as good as the taste, though. The wolf has not tasted anything but half-bad meat and dull metallic water and his own blood in a long, long time. The flower-bird human tastes like _outside_ , like a meadow, like - like a memory from behind the locked door, a _good_ one, one the wolf wants back. He can’t quite reach it yet, but the crack in the door is wider.

This is the wolf’s packmate. The wolf _trusts_ this human. Has let this human tend his wounds, has bent his head to let this human touch the vulnerable nape of his neck, has rolled onto his back and bared his stomach without fear. This human has slept beside him, and he has slept, too, while this human watched over him. This human has had opportunities to harm him, and has not taken them. This human ought to smell like _him_ , as well as flowers and herbs and pine sap. He doesn’t smell like the wolf, because they have been apart for -

A long time. The wolf has no idea how long.

He _should_ smell like the wolf. The wolf tugs at the flower-bird human’s captured hands, and the flower-bird human shuffles closer. He doesn’t seem to understand what the wolf wants, at first, and the wolf doesn’t want to growl, doesn’t want to turn _happy_ into fear, so it takes some awkward flailing, but at last he has the flower-bird human seated between his legs, his back tucked against the wolf’s chest, the wolf’s arms wrapped around him. Like this, the flower-bird human will smell like the wolf very soon.

The flower-bird human is very stiff for a little while, and then he relaxes, leaning back against the wolf, and the wolf makes a soft approving sound. Yes. His packmate should be comfortable in his embrace. He noses at the soft skin behind the flower-bird human’s ear, smelling salt-sweat beneath the flowers and herbs - the pine sap is strongest on the flower-bird human’s fingers. This is _good_. He has his packmate here, safe - well, as safe as anyone is in the cage.

His packmate should not be in the cage. The humans with dark plumage will come and take him and _hurt_ him the way they hurt the wolf, and the wolf can stand it, the wolf can heal, but the wolf’s packmate is only human.

The wolf has not tried to escape in...a while. There are too many dark-plumaged humans, too many with magic in their hands. They catch him again, and they hurt him, and they put him back in the cage. But maybe if _he_ isn’t trying to escape? Maybe if he’s only trying to make an opportunity for his packmate to leave?

His packmate is talking again. The wolf’s name, insistent now, like he wants the wolf to pay attention. The wolf nuzzles the curve of his packmate’s throat and makes an attentive noise. He has no idea what his packmate is actually saying, but he’s listening. This seems familiar. This is a thing his packmate does. Talking and talking and talking, like a bird singing just for the joy of it.

Singing? Does his packmate sing? That seems right. He sings and -

And plays a lute?

What the fuck is a lute?

Where _is_ the lute?

Doesn’t matter. If the wolf can get his packmate out of the cage, then the flower-bird human can find his lute again.

The flower-bird human sighs and says the wolf’s name, and the wolf hums in response. The flower-bird human laughs. That’s good. Laughing is good. The wolf hums again, to see if it will elicit another laugh, and it does. _Good_. The wolf can make his packmate laugh.

The wolf holds his packmate close, and tries to plan. It is late in the day - he has not seen the sun in a long time, but he knows whether it is day or night, somewhere deep inside, instinctual. Soon the dark-plumaged humans will go to sleep. There will be one left on guard, down at the end of the corridor that leads to the cage. If the wolf can get the door to his cage open…

Unfortunately, that’s the sticking point. The cage is sturdy enough that he cannot break it, though he’s tried. He can try again, of course, but it might be wiser to wait until the dark-plumaged humans come to take him away in the morning. He has not fought back for a long time. They will not be expecting it. He can make a very _large_ disturbance, and his packmate will be able to run. With a little luck, that will be enough. His packmate is clever, is sneaky despite his bright colors, is _fast_.

It would work better if his packmate knew the plan, though. But...there are words, somewhere past the locked door, but they are far away. The wolf doesn’t think he’ll be able to coax them out through the steadily widening crack in the door, not before dawn. The wolf doesn’t need _many_ , but he’s barely managing to grasp a handful of the torrent spilling from his packmate; he doesn’t think much of his chances of hunting down enough to get his plan across. His packmate is clever. He’ll get it.

Though the wolf...thinks he remembers his packmate being very bad about running away from danger. Being prone to running _into_ danger, even though he is soft and human and fragile. If the wolf makes a distraction, will his packmate run, or try to help?

_Fuck_.

Oh, that’s a useful word to have gotten back.

Maybe he can drag _one_ word out from behind the locked door. One concept. _Run_. If he can tell his packmate to run…

He’s done that before, hasn’t he. And his packmate has _not run away_. Even when he should. Even when it gets him _hurt_.

This may be harder than the wolf thought.

The noise of the big stone building dies away as the dark-plumaged humans go to sleep. The flower-bird human goes quiet, and at first the wolf thinks he has fallen asleep, too. But no, he is just being quiet, being - patient? He watches the front of the cage until the dark-plumaged humans have put out most of the lights and gone away, and there is only the one left, far down the corridor, facing away.

Then the flower-bird human tugs at his hands, and the wolf realizes he is still holding them, and lets go. The flower-bird human fumbles at his bright colored fabric plumage, at the strip of leather around his waist, and finally produces a pair of long, thin pieces of metal.

They don’t _look_ dangerous. The wolf eyes them warily all the same.

His packmate says his name, gently, soothingly, and pulls away. The wolf lets him go. His packmate stands up and holds out a hand, and the wolf takes it. Lets himself be pulled to his feet, and across the cage to the door.

His packmate gives him a long, oddly thoughtful look, and turns around and tugs the wolf’s arm around his waist before letting go of the wolf’s hand. The wolf puts his chin on his packmate’s shoulder and watches, interested, as his packmate puts the long thin metal bits into the lock and shifts them minutely this way and that. There are soft clicking noises from the lock, so faint even the wolf has trouble hearing them, but his packmate seems utterly focused on his hands. Sensing the vibration, perhaps? That would make sense.

There is a very slightly louder click, and the lock opens.

Oh now _that’s_ a useful skill. No wonder the wolf took this loud bright human as his packmate, back in the memories behind the locked door.

The wolf moves his packmate gently to the side, and pushes the door open very, very slowly. It is well-oiled and does not creak, and the shadows are dark enough down at this end of the hall that the movement can be disguised if it is slow enough. Finally the door is open wide enough to let the wolf out, and he moves, fast and silent, too fast for human eyes.

The dark-plumaged guard does not even realize he should cry out before the wolf has slain him.

The wolf’s packmate comes up beside him and puts a hand on his shoulder. He does not cry out at the sight of the dead man. He moves quietly, for a human. Whoever the wolf was, in the memories behind the locked door, he had good taste in packmates.

The wolf’s packmate tugs gently, and the wolf glances at him. He wants the wolf to go left. The way out is to the right.

But.

Well, maybe the wolf’s packmate knows something he doesn’t?

The wolf sighs, and follows his packmate’s tugging hand.

His packmate leads him deeper into the building, away from all the areas the dark-plumaged humans patrol. At the far end of the corridor is a locked, barred door. The wolf’s packmate fiddles with his long thin metal bits for a little while, and the door clicks open. Beyond is a dark room full of dusty bottles, stretching away into the distance. The wolf’s packmate pulls him in and closes the door again. It is much, much too dark for a human to see. It’s even a little dim for the wolf.

The wolf’s packmate is fumbling at his own throat, for some reason. The wolf waits, patiently, until his packmate finally produces a thin chain that’s been draped around his neck. He holds it out blindly towards the wolf, and says something, yanking on the chain like he wants to break it. It is thin, but too thick for the human to break easily. The wolf closes his hands gently over the human’s, taking a grip on the chain. His packmate makes approving noises.

The wolf yanks. The chain breaks.

The scent of lilac and gooseberry magic fills the air.

The wolf crowds his packmate back against the door, putting himself between the fragile human and the magic-smell. His packmate pats his shoulders, making soothing noises, saying his name softly. He still doesn’t smell scared.

In front of them, a portal opens. The wolf’s packmate shoves him gently. Says encouraging words. Says his name. The wolf stares at the portal, wary, worried. He was brought to the cage through a portal. He doesn’t want to end up in another cage.

Someone calls out from the other side of the portal - a woman’s voice, tense, strained. The wolf’s packmate makes an annoyed sound and squirms out from behind the wolf and grabs his hands and backs towards the portal, pulling.

His packmate is going through the portal. The wolf could free his hands easily - could take his chances fighting his way through the big stone building, killing as many dark-plumaged humans as he can along the way. But he’s tried that before, and it hasn’t worked. And he’s trusted his packmate this far.

He follows his packmate through the portal, growling every step of the way.

*

Jaskier can’t help the sigh of relief that gusts out of him as Yennefer closes the portal, with him and Geralt safely on the proper side. Geralt is growling low in his throat, eyes darting everywhere, but he’s following Jaskier’s lead, which is...actually a little worrying, come to think of it. Geralt has _never_ been the sort to docilely follow anyone’s lead, but he’s been remarkably cooperative this whole time.

Also very, very tactile, which is also weird.

“Geralt?” Yennefer asks, eyeing him warily. Geralt growls at her, moving away one slow step at a time and pulling Jaskier behind him protectively.

“No no no no no,” Jaskier says, and for lack of any better idea wraps both arms around Geralt’s waist. Geralt goes still. “Geralt, it’s fine, it’s Yennefer, you know Yennefer, she got us out, it’s _fine_ …”

Geralt doesn’t respond, but he does lose a little tension when Jaskier says his name, so that’s something.

“What the _hell_ ,” Yennefer says.

“I don’t know,” Jaskier replies. Geralt wraps his big hands around Jaskier’s forearms, holding him close. “He was in this horrid little cell, just pacing and pacing - you could see the ruts in the floor - and he’s been completely nonverbal, even by Geralt standards. I don’t think he even recognized me at first, and then when he did he got - well - _cuddly_. And extremely protective. He does recognize his name, I think, and he seems to like smelling me, and he’ll go where I direct him - there’s clearly someone _home_ in there, but I have no idea where _Geralt_ is.”

“Huh,” Yennefer says, and sits down, spreading her hands on her thighs. Geralt relaxes a little. “So he knows you, at least a little. And he knows his name. And he’s...well, feral’s not quite the right word, is it, he’s quite tame with _you_.”

“He did break a man’s neck with his bare hands,” Jaskier says.

“Well, it’d have to be with his bare hands, he certainly doesn’t have anything _else_ ,” Yennefer says, shaking her head. “Even for Geralt, this particular level of nudity is unusual.”

“It is certainly true that he usually wears clothes in public,” Jaskier says, vastly relieved that _she_ brought it up instead of him. “I mean, I’ve seen him naked _before_ , but there’s a difference between bath time and just wandering around with everything hanging out! And he doesn’t even seem to _notice_ , which is frankly disturbing. Although honestly the bit that worries me the most is he doesn’t have his _medallion_.”

“That _is_ worrying,” Yennefer admits. “He must’ve fought like a wild thing when they took _that_. But,” she takes a deep breath, “here he is, and here we are, and we can work on fixing this. Which will work better if I can take a proper look at what’s been _done_ to him. He’s clearly been bespelled.”

“I don’t think he wants you close to him,” Jaskier says. “Try talking to him? It took me a couple minutes of talking before he recognized me. Or scent, he was _really_ interested in smelling me.”

“Huh,” Yennefer says, and holds out a hand, palm up. “Geralt, you know me. You damn well _ought_ to know me, after your stupid stunt with the djinn. I’m helping raise your _daughter_ , for fuck’s sake. Come on, Geralt, I’m no threat to you.”

Geralt rumbles softly, deep in his chest. Jaskier presses a kiss to the broad shoulder in front of him. “It’s alright,” he says, keeping his voice as soothing as he can. “It’s just Yennefer. She’s a horrid catty witch but she won’t hurt you. You really do know her. Intimately, even. Go on, take a good long sniff, you _know_ her, Geralt, it’s alright.”

_Something_ about that must work, because Geralt steps forward very slowly, keeping Jaskier’s arms clasped firmly to him, and leans down just a little to sniff the air above Yennefer’s wrist. She holds still, waiting. Jaskier keeps up a steady stream of quiet, soothing encouragement.

Slowly, the tension drains out of Geralt’s shoulders. He straightens, but he isn’t growling anymore, and Yennefer sighs and relaxes. “Right,” she says, and stands. Geralt backs up a step, keeping Jaskier firmly behind him. “Ah, fuck. Alright. Look. Get him a bath and some _clothes_ , and then we’ll let him see Ciri, and see if that helps. I don’t think he’s going to let me get close enough to him to see what the fuck’s been done to him - not without knocking him out, and I don’t want to take the chance that that might make whatever the fuck this is _permanent_.”

“Permanently nonverbal naked Geralt would be bad,” Jaskier agrees. “Let’s see if we can get him back to slightly verbal mostly clothed Geralt. That would be good, yeah? Come on, Geralt, bath for you, you stink like a prison cell, can’t imagine why.”

Geralt lets himself be pulled out of Yennefer’s workroom and down the stairs to the bathing chamber. He eyes the bath dubiously, though, making a soft distressed sound deep in his throat. Jaskier sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. Trying to _force_ Geralt to do anything will end badly. Coaxing it is.

He takes his clothes off and steps into the bath - thankfully, Yennefer is a decadent horrible witch and has a lovely _big_ bath, easily large enough for two or three people - and holds out a hand. Geralt is still making soft unhappy noises, but he takes Jaskier’s hand and steps in obediently, and then looks startled, and then pleased. He sinks down to sit in the warm water with a quiet rumble of happiness.

“ _There_ we go,” Jaskier says approvingly. “You like baths, I know you do, you fucking _bask_ in them, you great ridiculous creature.” This is not the first time he’s bathed Geralt, though it’s been…

Well, it’s been _years_ , and the last time he saw Geralt the bastard broke his heart, and now here he is leaning against Jaskier and looking utterly contented just to be in his company. Which, _rude_. How the hell is Jaskier supposed to hang on to his completely justified hurt and anger when Geralt so obviously trusts him - trusts him so much that it broke through whatever this fucking horrible enchantment is, enough that he followed Jaskier without any objections through a _portal_ , enough that even nonverbal and fucking _feral_ he’s turning to give Jaskier access to his hair and sitting there with his eyes closed and a happy rumbling noise rising from his chest as Jaskier sluices weeks of dirt from him?

Getting Geralt _out_ of the bath again is an exercise in patience, and also in being a little bit of a bastard, because what eventually works is walking towards the door without seeming to pay attention to the tiny pathetic whines rising from Geralt’s throat, until finally Geralt stands up and crosses the space between them in three great, dripping strides and plasters himself to Jaskier’s back. Getting Geralt _dry_ is thankfully not quite as much of an ordeal, though it does use up three towels. Getting him to wear pants is...well, it’s quite a trick, let’s go with that. It takes all of Jaskier’s persuasive skill, and some inventive miming, and finally just kneeling down at Geralt’s feet and coaxing him to lift each foot in turn. Jaskier doesn’t even bother to attempt shoes, or a shirt for that matter. The pants will suffice. If Yennefer wants Geralt wearing more than pants, she can damn well fix this fucking enchantment.

Next step after bathing is definitely food, because Jaskier can count Geralt’s ribs without any trouble at all. Yennefer, thank the gods, has anticipated him, and there’s a whole array of things spread out on the table in the dining room, meats and breads and fruits and pitchers of water and small beer. Geralt makes a soft, astonished noise when he sees the food, takes a haunch of rabbit, and retreats into a corner, hunkering down on his heels to gnaw at the meat, watching the two of them warily.

“Huh,” Yennefer says. “So, chairs, not really something he remembers then.”

“Apparently,” Jaskier sighs, and gets a plate together of all the things he recalls being Geralt’s favorites, and brings it over to Geralt. Geralt looks at the plate, and looks at Jaskier, and loops an arm around Jaskier’s waist and tugs him down to sit beside him, and takes a grape off the plate and holds it out for Jaskier to eat.

“ _What_ ,” says Jaskier. Geralt nudges the grape closer, making little encouraging noises.

“Well, that’s adorable,” Yennefer says, sounding very amused. Jaskier glares at her.

Geralt whines a little, and Jaskier sighs, and takes the damn grape. He also takes the chunk of cheese, and the bite-sized pieces of rabbit, and the _other_ grapes, and -

“Have you got any idea why Geralt seems to think he needs to feed me?” he asks Yennefer, between bites. Thank the gods, Geralt is feeding _himself_ , too, big chunks of rabbit and bread and an entire apple, core and all, that he crunched through in four enormous bites.

“Nope,” Yennefer says, clearly enjoying Jaskier’s mild humiliation a great deal. They may have had to work together to get Geralt out of that fucking cell, but Jaskier’s pretty sure they’re always going to be a little prickly with each other. It’s fine. Having someone around to trade mostly-friendly insults with is actually quite good for his creative abilities.

“Well alright then,” Jaskier says, and leans against Geralt’s shoulder and just sort of lets things happen as they will. It’s been a _long_ fucking day, alright, what with letting himself be captured by those fucking assholes and then walking the very fine line between irritating them enough that they decided to throw him into the White Wolf’s cell and not irritating them so much that they just killed him on the spot, and then dealing with a nonverbal slightly feral Geralt who thankfully _didn’t_ do more than push him against the wall before quite clearly recognizing him, and then of course _escaping_. He’s never been gladder for the fact that he knows how to pick locks.

Finally Geralt finishes everything on the plate, and sits back in his nice defensible corner, tugging Jaskier into his lap again. It’s remarkably comfortable, aside from being deeply weird. Yennefer shakes her head a little in bemusement.

“I’ll just...go get Ciri,” she says at last. “Maybe that’ll be enough. Otherwise I think we _are_ going to have to convince him to let me have a proper look at him, and I don’t know how long that will take.”

Jaskier sighs. “With my luck, another twenty years,” he says. “I’ll just have to take him with me as I wander the continent. The great bard Jaskier and his slightly feral bodyguard! It might actually end up being a draw, I suppose - come for the singing, stay for the beautiful shirtless man who won’t let go of the singer…”

Yennefer sighs at him and leaves the room, and Jaskier leans back against his extremely warm companion and strokes Geralt’s arm where it’s wrapped around his waist and, as he so often does when he doesn’t know what else to do, starts to sing. Because he’s _Jaskier_ , he sings _Toss a Coin to Your Witcher_.

Geralt just nuzzles the back of his neck and doesn’t make any objection at all, and _that’s_ so disturbing that Jaskier almost cries.

*

The wolf is warm, clean, and well-fed for the first time in a very long time. The mage who smells like lilacs and gooseberries is...familiar. Not quite pack, perhaps, but not _not_ pack. Not actively dangerous, at least; and she hasn’t tried to touch him or magic him at all. And the wolf’s packmate cleaned him, and brought him food, and is sitting tucked against him and singing, which is what he does when he’s happy, the wolf can remember _that_ much. So this is a really remarkable improvement on...pretty much everything.

The locked door is cracked and leaking memories; almost half the words the mage and the wolf’s packmate are using are _familiar_ , now, though parsing them into meaningful thoughts is still so complicated that the wolf isn’t bothering. He _can_ remember traveling with his packmate, though, can remember his packmate singing just like this, smelling like flowers and herbs and pine sap and happiness. For some reason he can’t remember _holding_ his packmate like this, but presumably that’s in the memories still behind the locked door.

It’s quite late, and the wolf is starting to think he should find a corner to curl up in - he’s tired, and if he can convince his packmate to stay with him, he thinks he’ll sleep well, even in this strange place. Perhaps _especially_ in this strange place that is not the cage, that is not full of dark-plumaged humans, where the mage does not hurt him and his packmate sits curled against him and smells happy. Maybe there is a corner that has soft things in it, even; the wolf remembers soft things. They are pleasant to sleep on. He doesn’t get to sleep on them _often_ , but he knows they are pleasant.

And then the mage comes back into the room, leading a small human with pale hair and green eyes. She sees him, and her eyes go wide, and she cries out his name and comes _running_ across the room, and the wolf frees one arm from his packmate to catch her, because that’s what you do when your cub comes running -

Your cub -

His cub -

His _daughter_ -

The scent hits him at the same time the girl does, like a well-cast _Aard_ , and Geralt reels back against the wall with Ciri in one arm and Jaskier in the other and closes his eyes and _gasps_ as the locked door bursts and all his memories come flooding back. It’s like standing under the ocean as it falls on him; for a moment he thinks he may actually die under the weight of it. It’s so fucking _much_ \- he’s blind and deaf with it for a long, terrible moment, suspended in a seemingly endless parade of all the really unpleasant moments of a so far not terribly pleasant _life_ \- Trials and monsters and more monsters and the fucking _djinn_ and Pavetta and monsters and the _dragon_ and Yen leaving and Jaskier leaving and monsters and Cintra burning and -

And Jaskier is kneeling in front of him, cradling his face in both hands, barking, “ _Breathe_ , Geralt, you asshole, don’t you fucking up and die on us _now_ ,” and Ciri is clinging to him and weeping, and Yen has magic sparking on her fingers and a look on her face that Geralt’s never seen before, one he might actually label _terror_.

“Not...dying,” he gasps, not entirely sure he’s telling the truth.

“Well good,” Jaskier says, sitting back on his heels a little, and Geralt rests one hand very carefully on Ciri’s back, rubbing softly as her sobs begin to die down, and takes slow deep breaths, and wonders if he’s going to drown.

Being a wolf was _simple_. This...is not.

Being a wolf also put a surprising number of things into perspective.

“Oh hey!” Jaskier says. “You _spoke!_ ”

Geralt nods.

“Oh fuck no, you don’t get to go completely nonverbal again, you _bastard_ ,” Jaskier starts, and Geralt raises his free hand and cups Jaskier’s cheek gently, which does a surprisingly good job of startling the bard into silence.

“I need...a moment,” Geralt manages. “Please.”

“Alright,” Jaskier says faintly. “A moment. Yeah. We can do that. I - I should shut up, shouldn’t I -”

Geralt closes his eyes. “Keep talking.” The words spilling from Jaskier’s lips are like a rope thrown into the fucking _maelstrom_ that is currently the inside of his head. A lifeline.

“Keep talking, alright, that may literally be the first time in our long acquaintance that you’ve asked me for that, but I can definitely keep talking, and of fucking course the one time you want me to talk I can’t think of anything to say except thank the _gods_ , Geralt, I thought you were _dead_ and then I thought you’d lost your fucking _mind_ and now you’re just - meditating, are you meditating on the floor of Yennefer’s dining room after - and I cannot stress enough how bizarre this was - after _hand-feeding me grapes_ and cuddling me for most of an evening which, actually, you are surprisingly cuddly for someone who is essentially a wall of muscle, and also it’s dreadfully difficult to stay angry at you when apparently out-of-your-fucking-mind-Geralt doesn’t want to do anything but _cuddle_ me, seriously, it’s remarkably annoying, I want to be _pissed_ at you for being a complete _bastard_ but no, you have to be _sweet_ when you’re fucking _not even yourself_ -”

Geralt opens his eyes again. The maelstrom has calmed. He’s going to have to _actually_ meditate, because regaining a century of memories all at once is a little overwhelming, in the same way a selkiemore is a little unpleasant to kill, but at least he doesn’t feel like he’s drowning anymore. But first there are some important things to say.

“Ciri,” he says, and Ciri looks up, face tear-streaked and blotchy. “I’m alright.”

Ciri nods and buries her face against his chest, clinging like a vise; Geralt wraps an arm around her and holds her close.

“Yen,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Don’t make me have to do this again,” Yen says, hands falling to her sides, the magic surrounding her fingertips slowly fading. “I have better things to do than save your ass.”

Geralt nods. That’s fair. She’s training Ciri, and trying to keep them both safe from Nilfgaard; she _does_ have better things to do than save his ass, but he’s still grateful she did.

Last but most important, before he really genuinely needs to either sleep or meditate, probably both. “Jaskier.”

“Yes?” Jaskier says. He’s still leaning into Geralt’s hand where it’s cupped against his cheek, and watching Geralt warily with wide, vividly blue eyes.

“Two things,” Geralt says. “First. I’m sorry.”

Jaskier’s jaw drops. “You - I - fuck _me_ , did I just hear Geralt of Rivia _apologize_?”

Geralt nods. Jaskier’s eyes narrow.

“For what, _precisely_ , are you apologizing, you brute?”

Geralt takes his time choosing the words. He wants to get this right. There’s still enough of the wolf left in his memories, in his instincts, that having _hurt his packmate_ is a sort of aching shameful burn somewhere that might be his heart, if witchers have hearts. “I have...hurt you. Often. Said...cruel things. I regret them all.”

Jaskier blinks at him, sky-blue eyes very wide. “I think I just got a blanket apology for the past two fucking decades of your assholishness.”

“You did,” Geralt agrees.

Jaskier closes his eyes and shakes his head a little as though to clear it. “Alright. Alright. That’s...definitely a thing I expected to ever get, yes, right up there with a heap of gold as tall as I am and Valdo fucking Marx admitting I’m a superior bard and a very friendly succubus with a taste for singers. Yes. Alright. What was the _second_ thing, as long as you’re rendering me speechless?”

Yen laughs. “Only a bard could talk so much while speechless.”

Geralt huffs a laugh as Jaskier squawks, and brushes his thumb over Jaskier’s cheekbone. “Thank you for saving me.”

Jaskier flails and falls over backwards onto his ass, sitting there _gawping_ at Geralt. “You - just - I -” He flails even more wildly. “What the hell did they _do_ to you?”

“A question also much on my mind,” Yen drawls.

Geralt sighs. He’s not going to be getting to meditate very soon, is he. “It...they asked...questions.” Fuck, words are always hard, but now they’re even harder. “I went...deep inside, and locked the door. They called me wolf. That’s...all that was left.”

“All that was left was the _wolf_ ,” Jaskier says faintly. “Melitele’s _tits_.” He stares at Geralt in horror which turns slowly to bafflement. “So what was with the...cuddling…?”

Geralt rubs the back of his neck. “You’re pack.”

“I’m _pack_ ,” Jaskier says. “According to your...wolfy instincts.”

“You did that to _yourself_?” Yennefer demands. “What in the gods’ name was so important that you...did...that…” she trails off, looking at Ciri, who is snuffling gently against Geralt’s shoulder. “Oh.”

Geralt nods.

“Right,” Jaskier says. “You look about ready to keel over, I _feel_ ready to keel over, Ciri needs her sleep, and I have no idea if Yen sleeps or not, but we can...we can pick this up in the morning? And figure out everything then? Because I don’t know if I can cope with any more earth-shattering revelations today. Tonight. Whatever it is.”

“You two can share the guest room,” Yen says.

Geralt nods and gets up, slowly, curling his arms around Ciri. “I’ll put her to bed,” he offers. Yen nods and leads the way to Ciri’s room, and Geralt puts Ciri down very gently on the disheveled bed, tucking the blankets over her as she sighs and curls into the pillows.

The guest room has, as Geralt had half expected, only one bed. Jaskier is standing beside it, looking nervous. Geralt sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. The wolf is still close to the surface, the instincts still raw and powerful.

“If you want the bed, it’s yours,” he says at last. “But if you’re willing, I’d like to share it with you. I...would sleep better, knowing you’re safe.”

Jaskier gapes at him. “Are we _completely_ sure I rescued the right Witcher?” he says at last. “Because that sounded an awful lot like you talking about your _feelings_ , and the Geralt I know just _doesn’t do that_.”

“The Geralt you know also hadn’t just spent gods know how long as a _wolf_ ,” Geralt grits out. “You’re _pack_. It’s...overwhelming.”

_Overwhelming_ , Jaskier mouths. But what he says aloud is, “Alright. Not the first time we’ve shared a bed.” He pokes Geralt in the chest. “But you’re not allowed to wake up nonverbal again, alright? Wolf-Geralt is very cuddly but I prefer you _sane_.”

Geralt nods. “I promise.”

“...Right,” Jaskier says, eyeing Geralt a little worriedly. “Are you _sure_ you’re all the way back? You’re being weirdly cooperative. And you haven’t grunted at me once.”

Geralt considers his options. “Hm,” he says at last.

Jaskier collapses onto the bed, laughing near-hysterically, and curls up, clutching at his own sides. Geralt sits down beside him and waits, knowing Jaskier needs this moment of release, a way to let go of some of the tension of the long, strange, dangerous day. Finally Jaskier flops out on his back, breath coming in great heaving whoops. “You _fucking asshole_ ,” he says.

“Hm,” Geralt agrees.

Jaskier makes a very rude gesture at him and squirms up onto the bed until he can rest his head on the pillows and snuggle down under the covers. He lifts the blanket and raises an eyebrow at Geralt. “Well? Come on.”

Geralt slides beneath the covers beside him, and hesitates. The wolf part of him _desperately_ wants to curl around his packmate, holding him close, keeping him safe, breathing in the scent of herbs and flowers and pine resin. The Geralt part of him isn’t completely sure that’s a good idea - or would be welcome even if it was.

Jaskier lets the blanket settle down atop them and turns over on his side, his back to Geralt: a clear dismissal. Geralt crosses his hands on his chest to restrain the urge to reach out and touch. There’s a brief silence. Then Jaskier sighs, loud and exasperated.

“Come _here_ , you stubborn brute,” he says, reaching back with one hand and flailing it in Geralt’s general direction. Geralt shifts closer and turns on his side, curling himself around Jaskier, tucked against him from chest to knees, and Jaskier grabs his wrist and pulls it around his own waist, cradling Geralt’s hand to his chest. Geralt can feel Jaskier’s heartbeat beneath his palm. His nose is tucked into the nape of Jaskier’s neck. Everything smells of herbs and flowers and pine resin and _pack_.

“There,” Jaskier says, sounding very satisfied. “Now sleep.”

“Hm,” says Geralt, and falls asleep to the feeling of Jaskier’s silent laughter shaking the chest beneath his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone in this fandom has to do at least one apology fic, right?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Feathers and Fur (Man is Wolf to Man Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24994711) by [FoMT](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoMT/pseuds/FoMT)
  * [The Wolf and His Rabbit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26535760) by [chiqelata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiqelata/pseuds/chiqelata)
  * [[Podfic] Homo Homini Lupus Est (Man Is Wolf To Man)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28548699) by [Chantress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chantress/pseuds/Chantress)




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